


Dragged behind a Moving Vehicle

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [18]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, D'Artagnan POV, Gen, Hurt Porthos, Injury, Medic Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: “Stop the horses!” Athos’ voice caught at the end.D’Artagnan didn’t need to urge Désirée on. She understood. They raced onwards, gaining steadily, but oh so slowly. And there was Porthos, being dragged behind the coach, bouncing like a ball from root to rock, unable to shield himself.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

“Go to the right! Aramis, to the left! I’ll try and head them off.” Athos leaned low over his horse’s neck, urging Roger forward, away from d’Artagnan.

“This is madness!” d’Artagnan shouted at Roger’s hindquarters. “All we’re doing is abusing the horses! They’ll have to slow down eventually!”

“We can’t wait for them to reach their troops!” Athos bellowed back at him. “We haven’t got reinforcements!”

“They can’t keep up this speed much longer. We’re gaining on them already!” God damn it, why was he being the reasonable one here?

“And they’ve got Porthos!” Aramis shot past him, his mare’s hooves barely touching the ground.

“Jesus Christ have mercy…” D’Artagnan loosened the reins and let Désirée race after the others. Yes, right, they had Porthos. And the bag with the compromising letters. He did get that this was all very important, but that was no reason to ruin a horse, much less seven of them.

The big coach thundered along the rough forest road, teetering precariously when it hit roots and rocks. This really wasn’t a racetrack. But they hadn’t exactly picked this route. At least they were indeed gaining on the carriage. Even with four horses, it was still a big, heavy box to pull and musketeer horses were no mugs. How Athos wanted to head these men off was anybody’s guess though. Unless…

“They’re slowing down!”

He’d been right, there was no way they could keep this up. What next? They had the coach for cover, so might risk a shoot-out. What about Porthos? Use him as a human shield, or would they try to trade his life for the letters? Either way, they would lose.

The carriage slowed down to a walk. They were still too far away to risk a shot, but Aramis already had his gun in his hand, ready to fire at the first opportunity. Bad call to mess with Porthos on Aramis’ watch, really bad call…

D’Artagnan kept to the right side of the road, which meant he had a good view of that side of the coach. The door opened and a single figure in black flung itself into the undergrowth.

“They’re making a run for it!” D’Artagnan went for his own gun as Aramis’ shot rang out. Both bullets fell short of their target. The man scrambled up the hillside. D’Artagnan cursed and urged his horse on. A coach and a walker to catch now. Aramis was already reloading, guiding his horse only with his legs.

The crack of a whip made all of them flinch. Again and again and that wasn’t a crack in the air anymore, that was leather hitting flesh. D’Artagnan growled and bared his teeth. He’d make them pay for treating horses like that. The poor animals were already giving their best. The coach flew forward. So that was their game. Split them up.

“Stop those horses, d’Artagnan!” Athos shouted. “Aramis, see to Porthos! I’ll go after the other one.”

Then everything happened at once. The driver jumped from his seat and rolled a few times before struggling to his feet. Aramis screamed. Before d’Artagnan could figure out why, the third man abandoned the coach as well.

Then he saw it.

Porthos.

They’d thrown him.

Only he wasn’t rolling and getting up. Bound or unconscious or maybe both, d’Artagnan couldn’t tell. What he could see clearly was the taut rope stretched between Porthos’ tied wrists and the rear end of the carriage which was still shooting down the road.

“Stop the horses!” Athos’ voice caught at the end.

D’Artagnan didn’t need to urge Désirée on. She understood. They raced onwards, gaining steadily, but oh so slowly. And there was Porthos, being dragged behind the coach, bouncing like a ball from root to rock, unable to shield himself.

It felt wrong to ride past him, but Athos and Aramis were following right behind. They’d take care of him.

“Shoot the rope!” Athos screamed.

“I haven’t got a clear shot!” Aramis sounded panicked. Of course with Porthos being thrown up and down and the coach lurching across the uneven ground, he wouldn’t be able to fire without fear of hitting something that wasn’t the rope.

Hitting someone. Porthos.

Focus.

He finally caught up with the wheelers. All four horses were in a mad panic, sweat flying off their drenched coats. He’d have liked to cut off the leading pair but was afraid he’d cause more harm than good with a blade so close to them now.

Oh god, of course they’d have the same problem at the back with Porthos. Cut the rope and risk cutting him along with it.

“Woah.” He tried to pitch his voice loud enough to be heard, yet calm enough to not scare them even more. “Alright, alright. Slow down, you’re alright.”

If he could only get through to the back two. They were the only ones who could brake and bring that coach to a standstill. He kept talking to the horses, while also reaching for the reins.

This was taking much too long. He hoped to God they’d freed Porthos by now. There hadn’t been another shot. But sweet Lord, he hoped they’d cut that rope without harming him.

The horses didn’t hear. He didn’t blame them, poor things. They only knew they were getting away from where they’d been hurt. They had no idea what they were doing to Porthos. Finally, finally he got through to the horses. Whether it was him pulling the reins, his calming words, or just their sheer exhaustion, they stopped. They stood, snorting and steaming with exhaustion. He’d take care of them later. For now—

Angelina was trotting back towards him. Without Aramis. She must have overtaken him at some point and he’d been too focussed on his task to notice. Which must mean that Aramis… God, he better hadn’t broken his neck in any heroics.

Nobody was at the back of the coach. The frayed end of the rope trailed in the dirt. No Porthos.

They were a little further down the road, Athos on horseback, Aramis crouched on the ground next to an unmoving Porthos.

_Merde._

_Merde. Merde. Merde. Merde. Merde._

D’Artagnan looked at Athos, watched him sheathe his blade. Had he cut the rope? One of them had. Which was good. But had it been too late?

“Do you need help?” Athos asked.

Of course he did! Porthos was badly hurt. They needed to do all they could to help him. D’Artagnan was about to dismount.

“No,” Aramis said.

“Let’s get the letters,” Athos said.

Screw the letters. This was Porthos! “But—”

“Letters first.”

Athos turned to go after the men. D’Artagnan was torn. Porthos was on the ground, unconscious. Aramis was checking him for injuries. That was clearly where he needed to be. And yet… Duty called. Duty made Athos crash through the undergrowth, surely trusting him to follow.

With a curse, d’Artagnan followed.

Letters first, then Porthos.

And God help them if that wasn’t the right decision.

No more time to think. The men had a head start, but on horseback Athos and d’Artagnan were gaining on them quickly. Shots rang out from the bushes. They were close enough to be within range. They slid off the horses, sent them on their way. Easier to find cover on foot.

It was difficult to make out the men in the shifting light of the forest, but they’d been stupid enough to give away their location with shots.

It was quick. Athos did not hold back. He never made a sound, but he killed ruthlessly. He left two of the men dead on the ground and was already searching their pockets for the letters by the time d’Artagnan had dispatched the final man straight to hell. The lost documents were a little worse for wear, edges tinged red with fresh blood, but they were back in the right hands now, stored securely at Athos’ chest.

There was no question of burying the men. If their companions didn’t find them in time, the crows and wolves and foxes would take care of them. At least they’d be of some use then, feeding the animals. After what they’d done to their horses, to Porthos…

The way back stretched to an eternity.

“Did you cut the rope?” d’Artagnan asked, more for something to say than because there were any other options.

Athos nodded. “Nearly trampled him in the process.”

Two horses galloping along a narrow road, eight hooves and one man on the ground. A miracle they didn’t trample him, really.

“Do you think he…?”

“He was breathing.”

“That’s good.” D’Artagnan had to jog to keep up with Athos’ determined strides.

It had been a long time. And that road wasn’t in great nick. And they had been going very fast. And what if….

“Aramis will take care of him.” He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Athos or himself. “Aramis knows how to handle injuries. And we’ve got the coach. We’ll get him back to Paris in no time and then—”

“Shut up.”

D’Artagnan snapped his mouth shut and focused on running after Athos. If he had needed any more confirmation that this was serious, Athos’ tone was it.

He ran into Athos, literally, when Athos came to a sudden stop. They were on the hillside overlooking the road. Overlooking… Porthos, still flat on his back, and Aramis, bent low over his head. Aramis… Aramis’ whole body was shaking. He was…

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

He looked at Athos. Surely…

Athos’ face had drained of all colour.

Oh no.

He was so pale, d’Artagnan half expected him to keel over. Instead he stood up straight.

“Right.” Athos didn’t move. Squared his shoulders, set his jaw. Still didn’t move.

D’Artagnan took a single step forward. “He was breathing,” he said.

Well, he had been breathing. How long ago? They’d been quick about it, yes, but how long? Long enough to… No, they hadn’t been gone that long. If anything was… Aramis would be doing stuff now. He’d be binding wounds and… something.

It was fine.

It was fine.

It really was.

He stumbled down that hill, got his feet tangled in some dry leaves, tripped, nearly fell. Behind him, Athos crashed through twigs and leaves, tumbled over rocks. Down, down, down they went. Back to the road. Back to Aramis. And Porthos.

Porthos who grinned up at them and gave them a little wave.

“Don’t move.” Aramis’ voice was choked with tears.

“Is there anything wrong?”

“No,” Porthos said. “Did you get the letters?”

“Yes,” Aramis said. “He might… if… he could… his back, his neck…”

He was cradling Porthos’ head in his hands, thumbs on either side of his jaw, forcing him to look straight up. D’Artagnan looked at Athos. Athos gave a small, jerky nod. The portcullis went down behind his eyes. Fortifications up now, ready for whatever battle was to come.

D’Artagnan sat on the ground next to Porthos. “How you feeling?”

Porthos chuckled. “Like I was dragged behind a cart for half a mile.”

D’Artagnan smirked at him. “You need to check your numbers. There’s no way that was half a mile.”

“Aramis?” Athos went down on his knees. “What injuries?”

Aramis stared at him.

“Pretty bruised,” Porthos said. “Ruined the new trousers as well. Honestly though, I’m fine.”

He made to sit up.

“Stay down,” Aramis hissed. “Your neck, your back… if it’s broken and…”

“Can you check?”

Aramis took a deep breath and blinked his eyes rapidly. “Can you…?”

“I’ll do it.” D’Artagnan changed places with him and Aramis transferred Porthos’ head to him. Gently, very, very gently. It couldn’t be broken, right? People didn’t just… and not Porthos. Not his neck. Definitely not Porthos.

“Can you move your toes?” Aramis asked.

Porthos lifted his left leg.

“Don’t.” Aramis snarled at him. “Toes only.”

He held on to Porthos’ boot. Porthos smiled. Probably directed at Aramis, but with how d’Artagnan was holding his head, the angle didn’t quite work.

Aramis nodded. “Other foot.”

He nodded again. “Right.”

On to the legs. Porthos was right. Those trousers were goners. Completely shredded. So was his skin. There were big, shallow wounds on both legs where the road had burned away the skin to leave blood and dirt behind. D’Artagnan winced.

“God damn it, Aramis.” Porthos groaned.

Aramis ran both hands up his leg, feeling for broken bones, but mainly touching all those cuts. Bruises, too, probably. God, he had to be so bruised after all that.

Other leg, same result. Nothing actually wrong, but pretty messed up as a whole. Hips next.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said. “I know that’s got to hurt, but I don’t think it’s broken.”

Porthos groaned. “Could have told you that.”

Aramis frowned. “Don’t move. I’ve got to… your spine…”

“Go ahead.” Porthos smiled.

“Your ribs as well. I need to...”

“I know, ‘mis. It’s fine.”

It hurt. Clearly. Porthos wasn’t as scraped there. His jacket had taken the brunt of it, the leather scuffed and dusty. But Porthos growled. It built slowly in his chest, but the higher up Aramis got, the louder the growl got.

Aramis stopped. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“God… _Merde_ …” Porthos groaned. “I dislocated my shoulder.”

“You might have broken…” Aramis’ breath hitched. “Let me see your collarbones.”

“I’m telling you, I felt it pop.” Porthos rolled his eyes and d’Artagnan had to try hard to suppress his smile. This felt normal already. As long as they could snark at each other like that, there wasn’t really any danger.

“Let me…” Aramis fiddled with the buttons and opened the doublet to expose Porthos’ shirt.

“Cold fingers in three, two, one…” Porthos smirked.

Aramis didn’t smirk. He focused. D’Artagnan felt for him. Had to be odd to know all the things that could be wrong. No wonder he was worried. But he was also very methodical. Ribs. Left side. Right side. One after the other. Collarbones, left, then right.

Porthos sucked in a breath through his teeth. Aramis stopped.

“Pain?”

“I’m ridiculously bruised. Yes, I’m in pain.”

“Bruises?”

“Yes, Aramis, bruises. Will you get on with it?” He had to be tired of it by now. Lying there in the dirt, hurting. Probably desperate to get home.

“I’m trying to…” Aramis’ voice was faltering, his hands flailing on Porthos’ shoulder.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Porthos reached out a hand for him only to have it slapped away.

“Lie still.”

“It’s not that bad, Aramis, really.”

“You were dragged behind a carriage. It _is_ that bad.”

“Aramis…” Athos put a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “You’re doing fine. He’s doing—”

“Let me work.”

That shut them all up.

Nothing was any more wrong than had been obvious. Bruises, Porthos’ legs were an absolute mess, his shoulder dislocated, some rope burn on the wrists. Those wounds made d’Artagnan flinch. That was awful. Big, red, bloody marks where Aramis had cut away the ties. No wonder really. He’d had four galloping horses pull at those wrists. No wonder his shoulder had popped either. All in all, it could have been a lot worse. 

D’Artagnan handed over Porthos’ head again and Aramis made sure every bit of his neck was aligned and all in the right place. All good there as well. All in all, it could have been worse, clearly. Aramis helped Porthos sit up. Helped him up by the uninjured shoulder.

“Look at me.”

“Always.” Porthos smiled. Reached out a hand to hold Aramis’.

“Look to the left.” Aramis stared at him intently. “Now to the right.”

“Yes, I’ve got a concussion,” Porthos said. “What’d you expect?”

Aramis snarled at him. “I expect you to not die on me.”

“I’m not.”

“Cause I’m making sure of that.”

Porthos dragged him over and held him against his chest. “You are.” He pressed a kiss to Aramis’ hair. “You’re always looking out for me.”

Aramis gave a tiny shake of the head. “Not good enough.”

Porthos tipped his head up to look at him properly. “You’re wonderful, you know that. You’ve got my back all the time in a fight and you always come for me and then you check me over and patch me up again after. You’re perfect.”

Aramis shook himself and sat up straight.

“That shoulder…”

Porthos grimaced. “Better do it now, I guess.”

“Wouldn’t be very comfortable on the road.” Aramis looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m… I don’t… I…”

“D’Artagnan?” Athos nodded to him. “Let’s…”

He nodded towards Porthos.

What? D’Artagnan looked back and forth between Athos and Porthos and… oh. Aramis. Aramis who was pale and sweating like he was the injured one. Aramis who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, doing absolutely anything else. Right. Well. How difficult could it be? A shoulder. Put it back in. Pull on the arm a bit, that’s what people did. Sure. They could do that.

“We’ve got this,” Athos said and patted Aramis’ shoulder. “Just hold his hand.”

He got up and d’Artagnan followed suit. Shouldn’t be too bad. Little pull, pop that shoulder back in, then put Porthos in that coach and straight back to Paris. Deliver the letters to the cardinal and then off they’d go to have a well-earned drink.

At least Athos was certain of what they were doing. We’ve got this. Right. Well, d’Artagnan sure hoped that was true because he had no idea where to even put his hands.

Oh damn it, yes, that didn’t look right at all. There was a knobbly bump sitting right under Porthos’ skin where there wasn’t one on the other side.

“There’s something like a cup in the bone.” Athos demonstrated with his hands. “This bone has to go back in there.”

“What can I do?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Stand behind him, let him lean against your legs and relax his shoulders.”

D’Artagnan nodded and followed instructions. He could do that, definitely

Athos knelt in front of Porthos and Porthos leaned back against d’Artagnan’s legs. From this angle d’Artagnan noticed he was slumping down on the injured side.

“Relax,” Athos said.

Porthos groaned. “You try and relax. This isn’t my idea of a fun night.”

“It won’t go back in if you’re tense.”

Porthos sighed and squeezed Aramis’ hand. At least he seemed to relax the tiniest bit.

Athos put one hand on his forearm and the other on his biceps. Strange that Aramis wasn’t giving him instructions. That’s what he usually did when anyone had to do anything medical. Mostly when one of them had to stitch wounds he couldn’t reach on his own body. Any other time it was Aramis doing all this. This felt very strange. Aramis was not being his usual bossy self at all. He sat there, biting his lip and looking at Porthos like he was some sort of saint that had appeared to him. And what was the world coming to if he started to trust that others knew what they were doing to Porthos? Hell had to be freezing over.

D’Artagnan braced himself for a fierce yank on Porthos’ arm and the resulting scream. Porthos wasn’t exactly one to suffer quietly.

Instead, Athos was very gentle. He didn’t pull at all, just moved Porthos’ arm very slowly up and rotated it. No bone was going to jump into any sort of cup like that. Had Athos lost his nerve as well? What on earth was going on? What were they not telling him? First Aramis and now Athos. Everything had been perfectly normal. Porthos captured, alright, that hadn’t been part of the plan, but those things happened. It wasn’t like anything had gone majorly wrong. Porthos would be cursing every time he moved for the next week or two, but in the grand scheme of things, it was a pretty successful mission. Only Aramis didn’t seem to think so. And now Athos—

_“Diable!”_ Something popped and Porthos hissed out a long breath between his teeth. He slumped back against d’Artagnan’s legs. “Damn it, Athos.” He panted, then stretched his arm and wriggled his fingers. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Athos said. “You’re more than welcome.”

“Was that it?” d’Artagnan asked. Not that he was complaining, but… he’d expected a bit more. Whenever someone talked about putting a shoulder back in, it sounded a lot more spectacular.

Porthos glared up at him. “You try it next time if that wasn’t good enough for you. I’ll volunteer to pull both of yours out if you go on like that.”

Athos smirked. “Occasionally, myth and reality are rather distant cousins. You never want to pull too harshly on these sorts of injuries.”

Oh, right, so Athos was now giving lectures on medicine as well as military strategy, honour, and fencing. They’d have to deposit him at the university rather than the garrison.

D’Artagnan snorted. “And how do you know that?”

Athos shrugged. “It was a common ailment for my younger brother. I learned by watching the physician help him.”

Pretty rare for Athos to speak of Thomas. D’Artagnan relished it. All those little pieces of the jigsaw that was Athos’ life before the musketeers. They’d learned a fair bit, of course, couldn’t really help it with the whole rigmarole of the dead-or-not-so-dead ex-wife reappearing to torture him and all of France. But still… it all remained a bit of a mystery. It had been such a different life.

A physician. That wouldn’t have happened at the d’Artagnan house, that was for sure. Anything his mother couldn’t help with, they’d ask the midwife about and if she didn’t know, it was usually a case for the priest. Oh, and when the fair was on, there’d be a barber surgeon, but it was probably better to go straight to the priest than to deal with that butcher. He mainly trained his patients’ voices making them scream like stuck pigs. Before the musketeers, d’Artagnan had never seen a medic as skilled as Aramis. And now there was Doctor Lemay who’d studied all sorts of things and was a proper man of science.


	2. Chapter 2

“Aramis could you…” Athos was gesturing at Aramis and then at Porthos’ arm, which he was now holding pressed against his chest like he was afraid it would fall off. Aramis stared at him blankly.

“Come on,” Porthos said. “Give us your sash. For once I promise I won’t bleed all over it. I feel a right idiot clutching it like this.”

“Oh.” Aramis shook his head like he’d been woken from a nap and scrambled to his feet to unwind the blue cloth. He really did seem off. He hadn’t been like that earlier, had he? He’d been the one to figure out where they had taken the papers and… all normal Aramis stuff, really. He’d argued with everyone, made sure to look fabulous doing it, same as every other day. And now he was… wrong. Somehow.

D’Artagnan was missing something. He was sure of it.

“Let’s try and round up our horses and turn that coach around,” he said to Athos.

Excellent excuse to get him away from the others for a bit while they fiddled with that makeshift bandage around Porthos’ arm.

“What’s going on with Aramis?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot. “He’s not… seems like he’s not quite there.”

Which was probably mean to say, but also the truth. The lights were on, but other than that…

Athos shook his head. “He’ll be fine.”

“Not what I asked,” d’Artagnan said. “Why isn’t he fine now?”

Because Athos had pretty much admitted that Aramis was in fact not fine at all. Not that he’d needed confirmation, but still. Athos couldn’t deny it now.

“Because he watched Porthos nearly dragged to death.”

Thanks. Very illuminating, Athos.

“He’s seen Porthos injured much worse.”

“Which does not make it any easier to bear.”

“But why—” he broke off, suddenly realising… “Is it not just bruises? Is something really wrong?”

Athos frowned. “Not that I know of, no. If Aramis knows any more, he has not indicated it.”

“Other than looking like Porthos has died.”

Athos nodded. “Other than that.”

“So why…?” d’Artagnan let the question linger.

“If there is an easy answer to that question, I have not found it yet,” Athos said. Which really wasn’t an answer. Was he missing something? And if so, was Athos missing it as well or was he simply shielding him? This uncertainty was maddening, but Aramis had not seemed to be in any mood to be questioned about his mood.

The horses had calmed down by now and weren’t too wary of them when they approached. Poor things. D’Artagnan checked them for any injuries, but like Porthos, they had escaped any serious harm.

The road was too narrow to turn around on the spot, but they could see a crossroads in the distance. Athos took the reins while d’Artagnan lead the front two horses, still talking to them softly. Brave souls that they were, they followed him willingly. Maybe they could tell this wasn’t anything like the bad time they’d had before, even though they were still pulling the same carriage.

“Alright, now turn her around,” d’Artagnan said and stepped back. They’d reached the crossroads and they looked a lot less impressive up close. The crossing road wasn’t much of a road, but rather a rough forestry track. There wasn’t much space, certainly not for driving four in hand.

Athos arched an eyebrow at him.

D’Artagnan chuckled. “What?”

“Unless you expect me to lift the entire thing and throw it around, I fail to comprehend what you think is going to happen.”

D’Artagnan blinked his eyes at him and waved his arm in a semi-circle. “You’ve got the reins. Go ahead.”

“Immensely funny.” Athos gave him a look of tired despair. “I’m hardly the king’s coachman.”

Which was kind of the point. Nobody could be good at everything, but with Athos it could be difficult to find something he was truly no good at. Most things he said he had no talent for still saw him be much better than the vast majority of people. Driving however…

D’Artagnan smirked at him. “Typical. Think you were born to be driven.”

“It’s what I keep you around for.”

“Thought staff made you uncomfortable.”

Athos gave him a bored wave of the hand as he scooted over and handed him the reins. “It’s why we decided to make you a musketeer after all. I find it much more palatable that way.”

Good. Good. So some things were still normal. Not Aramis, but Athos was still his old self. There was a strange reassurance in their usual jibes. Being able to tease meant that nothing was too badly wrong, even if everything felt awkward.

D’Artagnan hopped on up and surveyed the scene. He had to admit that he might have been a little too eager to show off his skill. He was a good driver. He’d had enough time to practice driving carts around the roads of Gascony and ploughs across its fields. But this place really was rather narrow and he did not feel up to digging the carriage out of a muddy patch or mending a broken wheel. They had to get Porthos home, not waste their time. No time for mistakes, then.

Shame that he’d never driven four in hand before. Seemed like a useful skill to have. But who had four horses to spare to pull one cart? Show-offs. He took a deep breath. No point being nervous. Athos would be able to tell and so would the horses. And that would be both counterproductive and embarrassing.

Right.

As far to the side as possible. Slowly. And then… over.

Oh. Beautiful. The horses reacted so nicely to the slightest signal from him, they did most of the work on their own. How anybody could whip such wonderful, willing creatures… Inconceivable.

Round, round… goodness, four horses really was a lot. This felt like turning around an entire church. He tried not to look nervous. Slowly, gently… almost… Yes!

“Impressive,” Athos said.

D’Artagnan tried to look nonchalant. “Really not that difficult. As long as you know what you’re doing.”

At least he could pretend with driving. He understood the mechanics of it and wasn’t afraid to give it a try. What they were driving back to… No clue. He had no idea what was wrong there or how to handle it. Aramis wasn’t well. Porthos wasn’t either, but insisted it was nothing serious. And d’Artagnan thought that sounded right. Athos said so, too. But Aramis…

No idea. None at all.

He wanted to make it better, whatever _it_ was, but how could he?

“D’Artagnan?” Athos startled him from his thoughts. “Don’t go rushing in. They will tell us if they need help. They look out for each other. Whenever Aramis is… struggling, Porthos knows how to handle it.”

“But what if Porthos isn’t alright?”

What if he needed them to look out for him? To help him take care of Aramis? Knowing something was wrong and not doing anything was despicable.

“Then we should get him back to Paris and to medical help as soon as possible. Doctor Lemay will see to him if needed.”

Which made sense, of course. It was infuriating how Athos always made sense.

“I feel like a bad friend,” d’Artagnan said. “Just doing nothing.”

“Be a good friend,” Athos said. “There is nothing to be gained from questioning Aramis now. If there is anything on his mind, he should be able to decide if it is something he wants to discuss with us. More than likely he has already or will soon discuss it with Porthos. Trust them.”

Which shouldn’t be so difficult. Athos was right, as always. They were both grown men and they knew how to take care of themselves. And even when they neglected themselves, they would definitely always take care of each other. Damn it, he did trust them. He knew they could do this on their own, whatever this was. But still… doing nothing was horrible.

At least they were standing up. Aramis was gathering their three horses and Porthos now had Aramis’ sash tied around his neck, holding his arm against his chest to take the weight off that shoulder for a bit.

“There’s my ride,” he said. “Driver, to the musketeer’s garrison, please.”

D’Artagnan tipped his imaginary hat at him and grinned. “As you please, Monsieur.”

Porthos sounded pretty chipper. Like he wasn’t terribly worried about Aramis. And Aramis was moving around and making himself useful. Like he was actually back with them. Lights on and home. Much better.

Porthos moved slowly towards the carriage. “Sorry if I don’t join you up front today.”

“Be my guest,” d’Artagnan said. “Travel in style.”

Porthos grimaced. “Not really my sort of thing.”

“In the back.” Aramis shook his head. “Under no circumstances are you bouncing about on the seat.”

D’Artagnan smiled at him. “Give me some credit here. We’ll slide him home all soft and gentle.”

Aramis did not seem convinced. Neither was d’Artagnan, to be fair. This road wasn’t great and the cobbles on the main street would not be any more comfortable. It wasn’t that far, but it wouldn’t be an enjoyable trip for Porthos. They hadn’t brought any cloaks or bedrolls and there were no pillows in the carriage itself, so there wasn’t much to be done about it. It would still be the easiest way to get Porthos home.

D’Artagnan hoped that the horses would continue to be cooperative. He spent some time with each of them while Aramis got Porthos situated. Couldn’t hurt to get a bit more familiar. He wished he knew their names. Would make voice commands a whole lot easier since he didn’t think he could use the whip all that much with them after what they had been through. How did drivers manage to work with the whip anyways with four horses? Reaching the front pair without spooking the back two seemed impossible. Something else he should practice. If he ever found himself with a spare team of horses. These four seemed nice and confident around each other. He’d have to trust that whoever had trained them had done their job properly. So far, that seemed to be the case. And when had he ever not trusted his luck to continue?

With much groaning and cursing, Porthos was finally reclining on the seat. It was obvious that he was in a lot of pain, but he put on a brave face. For Aramis? Probably. Aramis was clearly better, moving purposefully and speaking normally, but he still wasn’t quite right. He was worried about something. But like Athos said, he had to trust Aramis to know best what he wanted. And he definitely trusted Porthos to know what Aramis needed.

Fortunately, they didn’t ask him to tie any of the horses to the carriage. Maybe Aramis would have preferred to ride in the back with Porthos, but d’Artagnan refused to ask, afraid that the offer might be accepted. Four horses were plenty to manage all at once, with an injured friend in the back as well.

Athos led his horse and rode ahead with Aramis.

“Away we go, driver,” Porthos shouted from the back seat.

“As you command, your majesty.”

D’Artagnan arranged the four reins in his left and clucked softly. Thankfully, all four walked off together. The coach still gave an almighty jerk and he could hear Porthos hiss in pain as he was being jostled. He’d probably hit at least ten bruises in that one moment.

Nothing to be done about it.

It didn’t go too badly. The horses’ gait was smooth and d’Artagnan kept them at a slow walk, trying to make the journey as steady as he could. Nothing to be done about the condition of the road though. Every time they hit a rock or a tree’s thick roots, the coach bounced and Porthos groaned. D’Artagnan made a few attempts at conversation, but Porthos wasn’t really up for it, too focused on clinging on and trying to spare himself the worst of the pain. But he didn’t seem in any danger of passing out and at least the constant stream of curses told d’Artagnan that he hadn’t died of some particularly vicious bruise.

D’Artagnan had to admit that he was by no means an expert at driving four in hand, but he felt he was making a decent first impression on anyone who was watching. It had to look splendid with the fancy carriage, the four gorgeous horses, and two musketeer outriders.

Constance would be proud of him if she saw him like that. Making it look easy. He wondered if he could take the carriage for a spin around Paris before returning it to whoever it had been stolen from. Probably not a wise course of action, but he could dream. Take Constance for a drive around the Luxembourg Gardens. Be the envy of all who saw them. Making it look easy. Displaying all this wealth. Treating Constance as the queen she was… Oh, it was nice to dream.

In reality, navigating the city streets in this great big boat of a carriage was not enjoyable at all. On the contrary. He felt like he was constantly about to run over dogs or small children with horses that were so far away from him he didn’t really have much control over them. Not that he would admit it. Holding all those reins in one hand was a challenge in itself, but there were so many loops to take every time they had to turn a corner that he really couldn’t spare a second hand to hold the reins.

Hard work. He didn’t envy the coachmen who did this every day.

He was drenched in sweat when he finally brought the horses to a stop outside the garrison gate. He mainly had them to thank for getting them all there in one piece. Or mostly in one piece in Porthos’ case. He was particularly thankful to them for actually stopping. He’d had frightening visions of never managing to get them to an actual halt and just driving around in circles forever. And with the way corners were going, circles weren’t something he was particularly keen on.

“Some help over here, gentlemen,” Athos shouted through the gate.

Damn him and his irresistible tone of command. He had three musketeers scrambling to obey before he’d even closed his mouth. He handed their horses over to them and sent a fourth who came jogging out straight back in to find Tréville.

Of course, the letters. They’d still have to take care of that. Letters, horses, and a fancy coach. No rest for the wicked.

D’Artagnan was left sitting there, holding the reins. He was thankful when two of the new recruits stood next to the horses. As well-behaved as they had been so far, the centre of Paris was a whole different story. One of them was already pawing the ground impatiently.

“Take your time,” Athos said. D’Artagnan craned his head. Athos and Aramis stood either side of the door, reaching out their hands to help Porthos.

“Do you want…?” Aramis didn’t finish the question.

“I’m fine,” Porthos said. He didn’t sound it. “I’m getting there. Don’t rush me. More touching is the last thing I need.”

Aramis flinched at that. D’Artagnan felt for him. He was only trying to help. But then again, Porthos had to be terribly sore. Difficult to blame him for snapping a little.

Porthos was breathing heavily when he finally made it through the door. He looked worse than before, in the forest. His face was pinched with pain. The wrapped arm was one thing, but the trousers that hung in tatters around his boots made everything look a lot worse. The blood had dried in dark splotches and gnarled crusts.

“What has happened to you?” Tréville marched through the gate and stopped right in front of Porthos. “By god you look…”

Porthos grimaced. “Like I’ve been dragged behind a cart.”

Everyone around them winced in sympathy.

“Any serious injuries?” Tréville turned to Aramis.

“A dislocated shoulder, already reduced. A mild concussion, severe abrasions to the legs and badly bruised all over.”

That at least sounded normal. Not the injuries, really, but the tone in which Aramis reported them. D’Artagnan had heard him report on injuries like that many times. Rational, only essential information. But also complete information. He doubted Aramis would keep a secret from Tréville if something were _really, really_ wrong with Porthos.

“Have you got it in hand?” Tréville asked.

“Yes,” Aramis said immediately. “I’ll take him to my room, clean up the wounds and apply some salve. He’ll be uncomfortable for a while, but there should be no lasting damage.”

Tréville nodded. “Glad to hear it.” He patted Porthos’ uninjured shoulder. “Go on, son, let Aramis sort you out and have a rest.”

Porthos walked slowly, but without assistance. He limped awkwardly, like he couldn’t decide which leg hurt him more and which one he wanted to put his weight on. Aramis hovered next to him, ready to catch him should he fall.

Athos quietly recounted their mission to Tréville and handed him the letters to return to their rightful owner. National crisis averted once more. Athos and the captain were so focused on the letters that d’Artagnan wondered if they had forgotten all about him in his new position as the coachman.

Not to worry, they did eventually remember him.

Tréville chuckled, looking at him up on the box. D’Artagnan did his best to look like an absolute natural at this. It helped that by now all four horses were being held.

“Careful now,” Tréville said. “Return this to the Duc de Luynes’ residence, but please ensure that he understands that the driver will have to report back at the garrison.”

Athos smirked. “Which de Luynes will undoubtedly regret greatly, for the driver’s looks as much as his skill with the horses.”

D’Artagnan groaned with embarrassment. Really, not in front of the captain. He was relieved when Athos clambered onto the box next to him. Trust Athos to know not only where to find the house of whichever nobleman, but to also have the words to explain to him how they came to be returning his precious carriage.

“All in all, a successful mission,” Athos said as they drove down the road.

“Tell that to Porthos.” D’Artagnan grimaced. “Or Aramis for that matter.”

Athos nodded. “I talked to him,” he said. “It seems that seeing Porthos unconscious brought up some memories.”

Savoy. Of course. D’Artagnan didn’t know as much about it as the others, but he knew enough to realise that nobody would want to be reminded of that.

“Poor guy,” he said. “No wonder he worries.”

Athos pointed towards the road they needed to turn into and waited for d’Artagnan to manoeuvre the horses around the corner. “I get the feeling that to him, it is a wonder,” he said. “That he carries the expectation that after so many years he ought to have forgotten.”

“That’s nonsense,” d’Artagnan said. “He’d never forget.”

“Forgotten may be the wrong word. But like you said earlier, he has seen so many injuries since, has seen Porthos in much worse condition. It seems to me like much of his worry is about his own strong reaction to this incident. The worry that some part of him that was broken and mended has now become unstuck again.”

“You mean when he was…” How to say _insane_ without actually being insulting? He only knew about that time from tiny little snippets of conversation and some insinuation. It wasn’t something he felt comfortable asking about.

Athos nodded. “It’s a place he does not wish to return to. And having witnessed his torment only when he was already much recovered, I fear for him if his mind does go back to even a fraction of it.”


End file.
